


The Art of the Game

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-11
Updated: 2003-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little competition is healthy for a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of the Game

If they were back at school, Clive thinks, it would be easier. A quick tap on the shoulder, a murmured, "I think I can help you get through your exams, Frost," and then it would all fall into place, Steve standing in his study wearing nothing but a smile. It isn't that easy. That's part of the excitement.

Clive knows where he stands with most of the players. He doesn't really bother himself too much with the Americans, except for Greg; they're nice enough fellows, but too insular for him. Greg is the only one who prides himself on being more British than the British, which makes him an excellent sparring partner. Tony, before his own demons caught up with him, was much the same, always ready to have a go with him. Steve, now…Steve is neither insular nor ready to spar with him, the kind of boy Clive was always fascinated by, cheerful, laddish, hiding his intelligence behind his laughter.

Clive is too subtle for his own good. Every move is cloaked by alternating layers of courtesy and sparring. Steve is straightforward and guileless, which means that all Clive's usual tools of seduction are useless. He compensates by trying to read Steve like a law brief, getting an idea of what tactics to use.

As it turns out, he didn't have to try that hard.

The players all share dressing rooms; Channel 4 has never been known for spoiling its employees. It has become an odd sort of bonding ritual. The only rule is that you ask the assembled throng to look away or duck behind a screen while you change clothes.

Clive makes the rounds after the taping, checking in with each player. Steve is alone in the dressing room that ordinarily he shares with Greg. He stands over the table, examining one of the tubes of moisturizer that line the table. The tube looks tiny and fragile in Steve's large, broad paw.

"I've never had any use for these," Steve explains when he catches Clive staring. "I've never known why they even put them here." He grins.

"Where's Greg got to?" Clive asks.

"Just missed him," Steve says. "Gone somewhere exciting, I suppose."

"Knowing Greg, I'd guess it's far from exciting."

"Yeah, maybe." They watch each other, casually, silently.

Steve does an extraordinary thing; he brings his hands up to his high-necked white shirt and undoes one button, then another. Before Clive can speak, he's only wearing his vest, soaked with sweat after a long day's taping. He strips it off and tosses it into the corner, turning back to meet Clive's eyes.

Freckles dot Steve's broad shoulders like cocoa on milk. Black hair, tufted and fleecy, forms a trail from his abdomen to his navel. Stripped of his shirt, he seems biblical in proportion, a Goliath in the BBC.

"Um," Clive says. "Er. Um. Er."

Steve says nothing. His eyes, bright and deep-set, regard Clive with…what would it be? In any case, the next move is Clive's.

From down the hall, Mark Leveson calls, "Clive."

Clive steps away. "Shall I, erm, shut the door?"

Steve shrugs. "If you like."

Clive walks down the hall, leaving the door open; Steve shuts it after he is out of sight. Mark babbles on cheerfully about intro this and outro that, but Clive is barely listening. He considers what to do next.

It's possible that Steve was just having a laugh at his expense, but that seems unlikely. Steve's humor has no malice in it. Interest? Perhaps. Invitation? Perhaps.

"Are you listening?" Mark says.

Clive, bored, rattles off Mark's last words verbatim; barrister life taught him how to hear the words of authority without paying the slightest bit of attention to them. Mark is satisfied. Clive is not.

The next time he sees Steve, he waits until after the taping, when they have the opportunity to speak privately. "Shall we meet up for a drink or something?"

Steve looks down at him. He pauses far longer than he should. "What, down the pub?"

Clive winces inwardly. Bad move for Anderson. He looks at Steve, who is smiling nervously, shifting from foot to foot. Clive says, "Well…"

"Because if it's not, that's fine, like."

Clive almost lets his breath out. This still might be difficult. "Well, if you don't want to, I'll leave the Scotch for another day."

"No, no, it's all right. Your house then?"

"Of course."

The moment Steve enters Clive's house, he knocks the coat rack over and then somehow kicks it into the corner trying to pick it up. Clive makes him go into the sitting room and start drinking.

"And try to refrain from destroying my couch, if you would," he says, because he can't resist teasing when the opportunity presents itself. Steve mumbles something embarrassed.

Clive picks up the coat rack. It doesn't look quite broken. *I have a bull in my china shop.*

Steve sits on the edge of his couch, Scotch in hand. He looks up when Clive enters the room, and whatever invitation that was there a week ago seems to have vanished from his dark eyes. Clive wants to retreat, game over, no harm done. Steve smiles up at him, a faint, nervous twitch of his mouth, and Clive tries to keep himself from imagining how it would feel to touch that mouth, run his fingers over the lower lip, brush against the fragile skin of the corners.

"I've seen you. Looking," Steve says. "Not here, on the show. Just looking. At me," he adds needlessly.

"I suppose I have been," Clive says.

"Is it part of the show? For the camera?"

"No," he says, and then, because it's already out there, and he doesn't see how he has much else to lose, "you're a good-looking man."

Steve goes to take a drink, raises the glass too quickly, splashing it over himself. He jumps up, the liquor already forming a dark patch across his front, and brings his shin against the coffee table, hard, the bottle of Scotch rattling and then falling onto the carpet with a crash; glass is everywhere. Steve curses and Clive begins to laugh, saying, "Leave it, just leave it," stopping him from bending over and trying to pick up glass with his bare hands. Steve's hands are rough and broad in his own hands.

"Leave it," he repeats. "Keep on like this, you'll burn my house to the ground."

"I don't know much about it," Steve says. He smells of spilled whiskey, all peat and malt. "How to, I mean. Sorry about the carpet."

"It's not that difficult." Clive tilts his head up at Steve. "So you mean to tell me that you took your clothes off in front of me without having any idea what you were doing?"

Steve looks offended. "I had an *idea.* Just didn't know if it would work. Did it?"

"Quite well, I'd say."

"What happens now?"

"This," Clive says, and tugs Steve down gently to meet his lips.

He only pulls away when the smell of Scotch on Steve's clothes begins to cauterize his nose. Steve bounces on the soles of his feet eagerly. "What next?"

"You might want to take a shower," Clive says. "You smell like you've lain on the barroom floor all night. A bit disconcerting if you're not used to it."

"Oh. Right."

"I could join you if you like."

"Don't bother." Steve is already peeling his shirt off.

He thinks about making a wisecrack, saying, "Well, at least I know you're experienced at stripping, Stephen," but he doesn't want to spoil anything, now that Steve is finally in his sitting room in his Y-fronts, waiting for him to continue. Instead he just says, "Come away from the broken glass."

Steve suddenly remembers. He surveys the sitting room, strong legs set apart. "Shouldn't we clean that up?"

"I never liked that carpet anyway," Clive says.

Steve is spread across his bed, the willing captive, clutching the bedposts in his hands. Clive vaguely hopes he doesn't snap them in half. Naked, he seems even larger, a perverse giant waiting to be ravished. "What next, what are you going to do next?"

"I believe you'll owe me after this," he says, bending down, close to Steve's ear.

"Yes, yes, right. What next? You won't go too fast, will you?"

"Hopefully not, the doctor said he'd cured that problem."

"Should I be lying down? Maybe I should move, like."

Impatient, Clive gets onto the bed and throws his foot over Steve's ankle. "Stop talking, Steve."

"What are you going to do?"

Clive's fingers are slick with sweet-smelling oil. He runs them across the fur of Steve's chest, brushes the backs of his nails against his abdomen. "There. Is that nice?"

"S'all right."

"What about this?" He cups Steve's penis in his hand, feeling the blood quickening through it. He slides his fingers, dripping with oil, along its length, then brings them to rest at the top of it. "Or this?" He circles the tip with his palm, pressing down; Steve lets out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a groan and tries to push him away.

"No, 'ere, stop…stop!"

Clive quickly takes his hand away. Steve grabs for him.

"Wait, didn't mean that, keep…keep going. Yeah. That bit there."

He tightens his thumb and forefinger around the base. The head of Steve's cock is crimson; his skin is fever-hot. "Like this?" Clive says, friction building under his moving fingers, lightly tugging at pitch-black hair. "Like this?"

"Like…that…" Steve's voice faded into a growl. He tilts his head back, gritting his teeth, savage and triumphant.

Clive lets him go and leans back, smiling. Steve opens his eyes and smiles back.

"I believe this means I win," Clive says softly.

Steve rolls over, trapping him between his legs. "Yeah. Want to have a rematch?"


End file.
